“This is insane. I study insects.”
“You develop behavioral computer models as part of your research.”
“Yes. Simulations—modeling the social systems of certain insects.”
“In fact, you’re currently developing a computer model that simulates the swarming behavior of weaver ants.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And that’s what they’re after?”
“Your work has direct application to a strategy being pursued by America’s enemies. I came here to brief you, Professor McKinney.”
“What do you mean ‘brief me’? Brief me about what?”
“About the terror bombings in the United States.”
“What about them?”
“They’re not terror bombings.”
She stopped short and looked around. No help.
“Over the past several months someone has been carrying out drone strikes in the continental United States. They’re not intended to terrorize. They’re targeted assassinations, meant to eliminate specific people. This is next generation warfare, Professor, and we’re facing a very sophisticated adversary. Someone who’s trying to remain hidden—and who thinks you know too much about their systems.”
Again she was speechless.
He stared back at her, unreadable.
She finally nodded her head ruefully. “Did you really think we could just fire missiles into other countries, assassinating people from the air, without it coming back to haunt us? You flouted international law, and now you act amazed that—”
“Be that as it may—”
“I appreciate you rescuing me, but I don’t appreciate you involving me in your . . . war, or whatever it is. I perform basic research on the natural world.”
He turned more serious. “As one human being to another, I’m asking for your assistance.”
“I turned down all military-funded research grants for a reason. I want no part of this ‘permanent war’ you people are selling. We should be investing in education and health care, not war.”
He flipped through the folder in his hand. “You contribute to human rights groups and antiwar organizations.”
“And I suppose you think that makes me some sort of traitor.”
“No. It gives me hope that you’ll help us.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does.” He leaned close to her. “We have reason to think these enemy drones might be using a software model based on the behavior of weaver ants. A model developed by you.”
She felt the warm surge of adrenaline. “My God . . .”
He started dealing out full-color photographs into her lap. Photos of carbonized and torn bodies, maimed and injured people at bombing scenes—some of them children. “Scores of innocent people are dead. Politicians, scholars, human rights activists, business leaders, students. Someone has bypassed America’s defenses to kill these specific people. And more die every week. What you need to do is tell me how to stop it.”
She searched for anything to say as she gazed in horror at the images. “But I don’t . . . I have no idea how my work could—”
“Tell me why someone would choose to imbue a machine with the mind of a weaver ant. What’s so special about them? Why weavers?”
She felt nauseous, on the verge of tears, looking at the photo of a dead child. A twisted and burned stroller lay nearby. “Because the weaver ant is quite possibly the most warlike creature on the face of the earth.”
CHAPTER 8
Lost in Action
Chet Warner had no desire to travel anywhere with the Pakistani army, let alone into the densely crowded slums of Lyari Town. It was like strapping on a deer costume to go out hiking on the opening day of hunting season.
One of the eighteen constituent towns in the city of Karachi, Lyari was a tangled warren of alleys, broken streets, and dilapidated buildings alongside the harbor on the west end of the city. Notwithstanding Pakistan’s population of Taliban sympathizers and Islamic fundamentalists, and orderly military neighborhoods, Lyari was controlled by narcotics gangs armed with machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades; not even the police dared cross into it. Going in with the army seemed not much wiser, since the chief distinction between the police and the army was the color of their armored cars. Warner wouldn’t even have considered going there if it weren’t for Colonel Kayani’s personal assurances that Langley would be pleased.
Warner glanced over to the ornately uniformed Pakistani army colonel sitting across from him inside the cramped BRDM-2 armored car. Kayani must be expecting a photo op, since he had never dressed like this before. It made Warner feel more at ease.